


Spring Snow

by abrae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a difference a moment makes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Wiggleofjudas prompted johnlock, pastels, and the first day of spring. This is what happened.

"Terrible day for a murder," John says under his breath to Lestrade, taking a drink of his coffee as he surveys the scene. Lestrade takes off his mirrored aviator glasses - an old indulgence he still rather loves - and squints up at the cloudless blue sky. 

"Nice one for a date, though," he says after a moment, and John’s eyebrows rise.

"A date? Today?"

Lestrade rocks a bit on his heels, nodding as though to convince himself. 

"Molly," he says, blushing, and John grins.

"You dog," he laughs, giving Lestrade a light shove. "Be good to her, or you’ll have Sherlock to pay."

Lestrade barks out a loud laugh, and they both look over to where Sherlock is crouching by a gnarled cherry tree, examining footprints left in the damp soil. It’s a warm day; the steam of recent rains rises up around them, and even Sherlock has taken off his coat and jacket and rolled up his sleeves in concession to the humidity. John absently notices the light blue of his shirt against the vivid green of the grass - the rich brown of the earth reflected in Sherlock’s dark curls. It makes a pretty picture, lighting John’s eyes in quiet appreciation.

He’s still watching Sherlock work when a gust of wind blows, sending a hundred loosened blossoms into the air, slowly falling in eddies around them. Sherlock glances up with a thunderous brow, rising to his feet as they rain down around him, and they catch in his hair, on his clothes, his skin. He stills and, for just a moment, wide, wondrous eyes trace the paths they make.

John lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding, and the sound draws Lestrade’s eyes to his face.

"Terrible day for a murder," he murmurs smugly, and John looks up, his frown belied by the way the corners of his mouth quirk up almost against his will. In the end, John lets his gaze be pulled back to Sherlock crouching once again, his shoulders and hair lightly covered in the remnants of the sudden spring snow. 

And, eventually, John answers, “Nice one for a date, though.”


End file.
